Odd twin out
by broodingbat
Summary: An old-fashioned romance with a couple of twists. Somewhat cliché, though hopefully not all of it. Canon-respectful, OC, not MS. Chapter 2 up.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I obviously don't own anything that belongs to the realm of our beloved Professor. No profit gained or wanted.

**Author's note:** Wow, I haven't brushed the dust of this account – and off my writing - in a while. Real life is a vortex. I hope you like this thing. Any mistakes or slips of the keyboard come either from my tiredness or my lack of brain, and I apologize for them beforehand. :)

Reviews are much appreciated. Hi to my old readers, if there are any left. I missed you, guys.

And thank you, pulvis, for the beta-work and inspiration.

**Odd twin out**

**Chapter 1.**

**Surrender the gray.**

_Out of sight,_  
_Out of mind,_  
_Out of love,_  
_Craving delight,_

_Falling behind,_  
_Reaching above._

_Our for a touch,_  
_Out for a kiss,_  
_Out for a chain,_  
_Wishing too much_

_Doing amiss,_  
_Bearing the pain._

_Out and in,_  
_Dead and alive,_

_Lovers and friends,_  
_Forcing a grin,_  
_Braving a dive,_  
_Making amends._

Her eyes were gray. Flat, customary gray, marked by neither shimmer, nor pronounced undertints. He treated the discovery with a small smile, recalling how he used to spend more time than that was allowable, trying and guessing what colour eyes would have met his if she had afforded opening her eye-lids during their last, and quite a single-sided meeting. He used to fancy them green – leaf-green and full of enchanting radiance - or rich, darkish blue, like the precious sapphires, set in his mother's rings. But they were gray.

The plain hue was disappointing, yet he realized very well none but himself was to blame for the shattered illusion. He shouldn't have dwelt on it so much.

In truth, the only thing he could have against her eyes now was that seeing them finally deprived him of an extremely captivating pastime. From that moment on he was probably bound to find another mystery to ponder over, killing hour after an hour on a long night of wandering beyond the borders of Imladris.

He winced as her lady companion as good as hang on her right forearm, jerking at it so hard it would prove a trial even for a perfectly healthy limb. And if he could have any trust in his memory, that arm showed torn and broken when he saw it half-a-year ago. From what he knew of the way such injuries behaved, it was certain to give her pain, but no shadow of displeasure came into her thin face. Although it seemed a question whether it was capable of showing much feelings. If anything, it was composed, though not comfortably so, like she nursed a hidden chagrin – old enough to resign oneself to, yet too keen to hush or tame.

"Should I watch her, too?"

He was not especially surprised to hear the question. His brother would hardly miss the chance to share his interest in anything whatsoever. Just like he himself would do, be it Elladan to stare at an unfamiliar face with such avid attention.

"Why?" asked he – just to say something.

"You obviously think she's going to steal something or kill someone," explained Elladan calmly, "Even our father, perhaps. Shall I warn him?"

"I don't think you mean it," murmured Elrohir, accepting the goblet his brother was handing out for him, "Won't he then send her away together with that cheerful cousin of hers?"

Elladan threw him a quick glance and chuckled, getting a knowing smirk in return.

"I'll mind it never to believe your distracted air, háno. And they are not cousins...But she's nice-looking. The cheerful one, I mean."

"May be," muttered Elrohir without much concern. Elladan gave a slight shrug, his eyes traveling over the group of Mirkwood guests.

"Eru has been good to me," remarked he, addressing to no one in particular, "I won't have my throat torn by my own brother over a maiden."

"Not over this maiden, háno," Elrohir shook his head slowly, "Although she might like me," added he with a small grin.

"Won't it give me my share of chances?"

The gray-eyed lass raised her healthy arm to give a gentle pat to the hand of her friend, chained firmly to her shoulder. The latter started and unclenched the grasp, smiling apologetically. No, definitely not relatives. Fair hair and dark hair, eyes gray and eyes blue. Imladris and Mirkwood, he'd say, if he were asked, but this child of Imladris was a stranger to him.

Not a maid, either. An envoy of Mirkwood would hardly allow a maid of his daughter dress with luxury equaling that of his daughter's gown. Just like he'd hardly break a grave talk to one of Rivendell nobles only to speak to her with a look a concerned father could give to his ailing child.

"She's not his new wife, is she?" questioned Elladan musingly. None of them ever erred in picking up the line of the other's thoughts, "From what I heard, he's a widower. Where could I see her?"

"Eregion."

_"Elladan!"_

_A knife whistled past his ear, missing his cheek for a thin hair. His horse was dead, his leg – almost unmoving from the weight that came down on it with the carcass of the animal. Praying for the bones to be intact, he dragged himself from under the heap of flesh, that was his steed just a moment ago, and rolled closer to the covey of pale, wide-eyed ellyth. He had hoped to cover their retreat to the sparse handful of trees on the fringe of otherwise bare patch of clayey ground. One glance at the group was enough to realize he would have to call the plan a failure. Two of them were, perhaps, still able to move on their own, despite the blank terror that held them in its clutch so obviously, but the third...the third was lying in a deep swoon against the shoulder of her fellow in misery, her forehead blotted in viscid blood, her right arm a mess of ripped up skin and stained fabric._

_The wound was bad, worse than anything remotely healable on the spot, even for the powers of his father, deep though they ran in his veins. The edge of the broken bone thrusting out white against the blackish red of the cut. A sickly sight, and twice dreadful showing on someone of her sex and build._

_If his horse hadn't fallen...He knew he wouldn't be able to carry her now, not with his leg buckling under him the way it was._

_With the corner of his eye he caught sight of Elladan, cutting through the pool of dark rascals. The unfamiliar ellons, making up the girls' escort, fought by his sides violently. The orcs were thrashing about the field almost at random now. Always too slow to choose between many victims, they still didn't grasp it that three helpless she-elves and their injured guard made a much better prey than three armed warriors._

_Unfortunately, he understood it only too well it wasn't long till the idea hit them. But for now he still had an advantage._

_"Run," murmured he to the alert ellyth, reaching out to pull the unconscious lass into himself, "To those trees, run now."_

_"But..."_

_"Now!" barked he harshly. Without further objections the ladies sprang up and dashed to their safety. He watched them till they seemed to vanish between the tree trunks. The orcs might have grown strong enough to match an elf in a battle, but their eye-sight was still not as keen as to spot a hiding target of his kind._

_Yet that was the only thing to rejoice at in his position._

_"Oh, yes," muttered he under his nose, as the orcs regrouped to start out for him hastily,"Of course."_

_He was letting them too close now. With a groan he fought up to his feet, but the leg betrayed him again, and he fell back on his knees heavily, cursing the feebleness that had seized him. He could never get used to it._

_He would't make it, he wouldn't..._

_The nearest orc threw up his hands, clutched around a twisted black bow, and bared his yellowish fangs in a smile of cruel mockery._

_Without thinking Elrohir lunged down and covered the unstirring body on the ground before him with his own..._

Elrohir flinched uncomfortably. Now that the day was far enough in the past, he shouldn't have let it unsettle him so much. No tragedy happened. The wound he carried out of the skirmish was a mere scratch, patched up by Elladan quite decently. All things possible were done to bring the lass into the state that threatened with no immediate trouble. After which all they could do was to accompany the group as far as their own task allowed them and let them go in peace.

She never regained her senses, much to his hidden worry. Seeing her now relieved him of it, but only to an extent. She was still too much of a disquieting thought, more than she was of a real person. She had no name.

The name.

He could swear having heard it said by one of her companions then. Yet now, in the brightly lit state hall of Imladris, he had to admit not a letter of it had clung to his memory. For no apparent reason the discovery sent a chilly wave down his spine, a strange feeling that this untimely oblivion would serve him a bad turn very soon.

_"Run. To those trees, run now."_

_"But..."_

Why was it suddenly important that he remembered it before they finally faced each other...?

"Come back, háno," said Elladan quietly, "Father needs us."

Balrogs take the darn sieve of a head...

He moved ahead swiftly, feeling more than knowing that Elladan was walking by his side, their soles touching the glassy tiled floor in time with each other. The name still didn't come to his tongue, no matter how stubbornly he sought for it. One sound, just one...His steps slackened, but the delay was wasted in vain, for it gave him nothing. The courtiers assumed the appropriate silence. The envoy, a middle-aged ellon with a hearty, if well-learned smile came forward to pay them a bow – one for both. Elrohir appeared unable to follow the line of the formal greetings, forcing a nod when his father introduced him and Elladan and presented the envoy. Another name he missed...The lass was looking at the envoy, waiting for the sign to perform her part of the ceremonial play. Her pale skin showed transparent in the dark frame of loose hair, and her eyes were gray. _"Runtothosetreesrunnowbut..."_ The hall felt suddenly strange, drowning in sickening warmth. Elrohir had to stop again for a deep breath. The world was closing in on him. He tried to chuckle it off, but the air in his throat was thick and scalding.

The name.

_"But..."_

Oh, he was failing miserably. But could he know the penalty would be such a cruel one?

"I grieve the absence of your daughter, for I hoped to pay her my respect in person," the envoy was speaking in a cool and measured manner, equal for all officials of high standing, whatever the realm they came from, "But I rejoice I can present you mine. My daughter, Lenneth."

The smiling blonde elleth bowed slightly. Elrohir found himself keeping a small hand, she held out for a customary kiss, which he performed far less earnestly than Elladan.

The gray-eyed lass drew forward after her friend, motioning to extend her arm to any of the welcoming party, but the envoy caught her at the wrist gently.

"My step-daughter," uttered he with a soft fatherly indulgence. There was nothing humiliating in his tone or gesture, yet the proud royalty, the son of Elrond was, felt a momentary stab of anger, when the girl blushed and gave a little bow tardily. Oblivious of his displeasure, the envoy smiled and allowed her to finally slip her palm into the eager hand of Elrohir.

_"Runtothosetreesrun..."_

She didn't look at him. Not as he'd have preferred her to. That reluctant, out-of-body glance he'd been trying to catch so intensely, brushed across him, like he was made of air, and rested on Elladan.

Lost and helpless, Elrohir watched those plain, commonplace, those gray eyes sweep wide open for a second as her gaze chained itself to the face of his brother, and that unhappily placid line of her mouth softened almost to tenderness.

_"Run. To those trees, run now."_

_"But..."_

Then in a flash the name came to him, easily like it had never left his memory at all. Her lips moved, and he drank the sound of her voice, that echoed the whispering call from the past in his ears:

"...Mirgael."

The coolish fingers slipped out of his grasp, and he woke up again to the reality where the first smile he'd ever seen lighting up her face was granted to another. To his own twin.

He should have remembered that name before it was too late.


	2. Ice and cold water

Disclaimer: See ch.1

Thanks a lot for your feedback, I really appreciate it.

Enjoy and review, if you are inclined. :)

**Chapter 2.**

**Ice and cold water**

_And this will be all?**  
**And the gates will never open again?**  
**And the dust and the wind will play around the rusty door hinges and the songs of October moan, Why-oh, why-oh?_

_And you will look to the mountains**  
**And the mountains will look to you**  
**And you will wish you were a mountain**  
**And the mountain will wish nothing at all?**  
**This will be all?**  
**The gates will never-never open again?_

- Carl Sandburg

The day was a lovely one, golden sunlight slipping into the terrace through the openings between the smooth and cool marble columns. The world outside was reveling in spring. The grass showed soft and deep, the trees were joining new crowns in hopeless love for each other, the scents of cold streams and rich blossom mixed in one perfect poison for the steadiest of minds. The realm was enchanting, more lucid than Mirkwood, yet so novel and alien to her. Just like this house. For the fifth time she came here, but the dwelling of her family still didn't accept her as the only child who'd ever come out of its chambers. Mirgael tried to listen into it. Tried to feel something, to discern the traces of her mother's still lingering presence. But the truth was she'd never known her, and couldn't tell what she should look for.

Some tiny sober part of her mocked at the attempts, assuming that the soul of her mother, be it even roaming around its former abode, would hardly heed to her complaints. Would she recognize her daughter at all?

She was told that the house had remained empty since the day her father had left it with her own month-old self on his hands - to settle in Mirkwood and die there a hundred of years later. He couldn't bare the thought of living alone where he'd once used to relish in a star-blessed union. Mirgael had never been able to understand it...up to the day it seemed to her that she had found her own match.

A bitter smile settled on her lips. She was such a fool. Not because she loved Elladan. That she wouldn't give up for as much of a good reason as there could be. But how clumsy could she be, hurrying to betray her heart to him when she knew so little of his own intentions.

She shuddered at the memory of humiliation that followed. No, he didn't put her to everyone's ridicule, thank Eru. She'd seen such things happen not once. But he was quite straightforward, even though the unequivocal refusal to answer her feelings was wrapped in more or less casual wording. It appeared that he found it all very amusing.

And some days later, to make it all worse, she saw him sharing a walk with her step-sister. And then another, and one more, until they became almost inseparable, showing side by side both at the formal ceremonies and out of the palace.

Mirgael would step back if he loved Lenneth. Or Lenneth loved him, but none of them made it a secret they merely enjoyed the company of each other without any plans of relating Mirkwood and Imladris.

And she tried again only to receive a worse blow.

"My dear Mirgael," said he then, "I am no better than my brother. Lend your eye to him. You won't have to regret it."

His brother!

Mirgael didn't stop marveling at how different they could be. So much soul in one and nothing but drabness in the other.

What they shared, though, was the failure to keep things better left unsaid to themselves. And, where Elladan was not vague in turning down her affection, Elrohir put as much unwelcome candor in seeking it out. She couldn't say he was pestering her, but he was there. Waiting. Admitting his feelings with a straight face. The first refusal didn't cool him down, and nor did those that came after. And though there never was another direct declaration, he remained at her elbow stubbornly. First uncomfortable, even regretful, Mirgael very soon learned how burdensome an unwanted wooer could prove. More than that in her case. Elladan made it clear enough he would not step over his brother even to secure his own happy lot. To say nothing about when neither happiness, nor love was at stake. She would never be able to be a woman for him till she was a woman for Elrohir.

That's when malice rose, the one she couldn't feel for him who she loved, but had no strength to banish out of her heart. Now she shunned Elrohir openly. Whenever he was unlucky enough to meet her alone, she couldn't but take it out to him, the more because he faced her hostility calmly, almost indifferently. All reason he was, and that got under her skin more than anything.

That would have been easier, if she were not an almost offspring of an envoy. Her step-father deemed it only natural that, where Lenneth was escorted by Elladan, Elrohir was meant for Mirgael herself. That was proper, that made the terms between Elladan and his own daughter somehow part of the protocol.

Mirgael knew well enough he was disinclined to marry Lenneth off to Imladris, even though the attentions paid to her by lord Elrond's son flattered him. And when both maidens brought by him from Mirkwood were cavaliered by the best young nobles the court could offer – by brothers - he felt free from the obligation of promoting such a union. It was all just courtesy of the inviting and towardness of those invited.

The envoy in him obviously found it a satisfactory turn of events.

The spot of sunlight on the floor blinked and disappeared, as a tall figure stepped into the terrace through the narrow door frame.

Her heart missed a beat involuntary, but no...It is only at first glance that she could mistake one of them for another.

It would be stupid of her to believe Elladan would wish her company all of a sudden.

The intruder stood at the threshold, his light eyes taking in the sight of her swiftly.

"The day is nice, Mirgael," said he in a low, tender voice.

The notes of endearment in his greeting put her in a temper faultlessly.

She chose not to answer. Nothing of what she could say to him now was either polite or appropriate.

Not having received a direct rebuff, Elrohir moved closer to the marble bench on which she had been languishing for the past hour or two.

"Will you allow me?"

"This is your land," replied she evasively.

"But this home is yours," he pointed out in a placatory tone.

"I have never lived here," Mirgael spoke more harshly than she wished to, but not as harshly as he deserved it, "My home is Mirkwood."

No response came. In silence Elrohir took a seat by her side, yet far enough for her to jeer at the mock unobtrusiveness he was demonstrating. For a second or two she was trying to catch his glance, but he gave her no chance to, looking down steadily. The better for him, Mirgael thought with a fair deal of irritation. She'd heartily advise him to follow the same line till he learned to keep his eyes off her once and for all.

Or, perhaps, his unusual quietness meant he was ready to do it. In that case she wished not make it harder for him by calling attention to herself with some needless show of indignation.

He was toying with a small blue flower – she didn't know its name – and the movements of his hands were strangely pacifying. Her anger was calming down, may be, because he didn't speak a word more, choosing patched-up peace over the good quarrel.

The house inhaled a heartful of the honeyed spring air. The hour was still early, but the evening was already creeping up the terrace unimpeded. It would soon turn colder. Mirgael felt it by the nagging ache that was spreading across her injured arm. The wound had taken two months to heal, but the discomfort never left her. Funny how her step-father tried to shield her from any memories of the happening. Her companions were prohibited from ever mentioning that day in her presence. As if she could really forget it, with this pain sitting in her body to raise its head at each whim of weather and her own spirits.

She must have given out a sound of annoyance, for Elrohir drew himself up slightly. Strange as it was, he didn't ask her about anything, a worried glance darting directly to her arm instead. Although the word of his family's skills in curing had long traveled beyond the borders of their land. Perhaps, it was natural for the born healers to feel where the ailment came from without being warned it existed at all.

It was awkward to share solitude with him – almost a complete one, considering how desolate the place was. The house of her family was not the only abandoned dwelling in this part of Imladris. Their people went and withered under the overbearing shadow, and there were not many who ventured to bring new lives into the world. Three out of four houses here were nothing but empty shells, places of sorrow and remembrance rather than masterless lodgings.

Mirgael closed her eyes in a hopeless attempt to relax and shake off the tension, born by the unwelcome company. But the subject that her thoughts chose to dwell on brought her no peace of mind, either.

If Elrohir found time to come and plague her, it most likely meant Elladan was free from the duties of the palace, too, and was wandering somewhere in the flourishing gardens of Imladris. With Lenneth. Letting her arm rest in the circle of his. Cupping her face to taste her smiling lips with a sigh of passion. Offering her a hand, as they stood from the grass, leaves and dandelion puff in their hair.

Was there a bitterer knowing than this?

"Why cannot he love me?" questioned Mirgael out loud and gave a start as she heard the words leaving her mouth. She was forgetting herself unpardonably.

"Why cannot _you_ love _me_?" murmured Elrohir, not raising his eyes at her. No spite resounded in the even voice, and against herself Mirgael marveled at this reserve. She almost envied him for being able to bear the heartsore without a shadow of vexation at the one who caused it.

"That's not-"

"-the same thing?" finished he with a hint of mirthless humor. The flower in his fingers froze motionless.

Mirgael pressed her lips hard.

"Elrohir, I told you not once," despite the growing annoyance she forced herself to speak on a milder note, "I have nothing to offer you. Forgive me if I give you pain, but it's your brother I need."

"Yes," carefully Elrohir put the flower down between them, before turning to face her. For a second his hand was still on the polished marble of the bench, and then he reached out for hers, curled up in a fist on her laps. For some reason the gesture miffed her even more. Was there no spontaneity in him at all?

"But what makes you think you'll know no other love, Mirgael fair?," he went on with more feeling, "What makes you think your heart is so mortally wounded? You are so young...And you are unhappy. Don't you just look for consolation?"

His long fingers twined around her wrist caressingly and slid on, as he tried to make her unclench the desperate grasp. Convulsed at the touch, she shook his hand off in one rough motion.

"You don't understand! And even if it's so...do I not have a reason to grieve? My father died with no one except my mother on his mind. I'm a dependent for as long as I can remember. Even the one I love doesn't want me. I'm always foisted on everyone...And...Lenneth will find a husband, now, in a year, in ten years. What will I be then? More of a burden than I am now. My step-father-," Mirgael checked herself, getting aware of the frosty sparkle that came into his eyes as she all but slandered her guardian, "No...I...he doesn't reproach me for anything...He loves me. But there's always the knowing that I am to make a good match, so he didn't feel he had failed my father..."

"So make it," Elrohir interrupted her calmly, "Marry me."

Mirgael flinched, coming back to the reality at once. For the second time that day she had to brand herself an utter fool. What a perfect company for bewailing her misfortunes she chose!

But he was no better. Did he really think she had spoken her heart thus only to invite his insipid proposal?

"How can you?" returned she bitterly, "I won't be traded!"

His brows came together in a short-lived frown.

"Would you marry Elladan?" inquired he in a low voice.

"Yes, I would."

"You will not be traded for peace, but you'll pay with yourself for his love? What makes the difference?"

Anger flashed through her like a lightning. Casting aside all reserve, Mirgael sprang up from the bench to pin him down with a furious stare.

"You're loathsome," she spat out, "How do you even dare say you are able to love someone?"

It was almost a pleasure to see his mouth twitch, like he fought back a retort. The joy, however, appeared more than fleeting.

"You are cruel," stated he with calm sadness, "Stubborn. Immature. But I cannot judge you and I cannot scorn you. You make me helpless. How is it not love to you?"

She was barely breathing now, stung to the quick by the reproach he surely had no right to voice. One could think she had begged his pitiful affection out of him!

"You forgot your pride, son of Elrond."

Elrohir ran both palms along his face, wiping away whatever expression had still clung to it up the moment.

"My pride," repeated he in a detached manner, as if his tongue never knew the taste of these words.

The terrace plunged in heavy silence.

Mirgael couldn't tell why she had failed to leave the place yet. Perhaps, she did believe the house to be hers, after all, while Elrohir was no more than an intruder, bound to take himself off when she chose to show him the door.

"I don't comprehend that," uttered he at last, "I share my brother's face, his voice, his bearing. His thoughts – to where they are often mine. Why do you love him so violently and still abhor the very thought of loving me? It doesn't make sense."

"Love never does," asserted Mirgael passionately.

A small, tired smile passed across his lips as he looked up at her with softness which was more insulting than any of his words, so painfully it mirrored the all-but-indulgent look always given to her by Elladan.

"How do you know, Mirgael fair?" asked he quietly, "How many times should one love to say that?"

That's when Mirgael knew she had taken her last insult from him that day.

"I've heard enough from you, son of Elrond," said she in an icy tone, turning away to leave – this time without hesitations, "Spare me from hearing more."

* * *

Elrohir was boiling with temper and resentment. There was no patience strong enough to endure it, and his own one was thinning so dangerously. Hadn't he known it absolutely impossible, he'd have to believe she found pleasure in killing him over and over again just to see how much mortification he could take.

And he was already so desperate that the thought almost thrilled him. He found himself fancying the idea of being played with. Not all games of the kind held a promise of reward, but some surely did.

If only he were as weak as to hope that he was merely put through trial. Or that his wriggling was of at least some entertainment for her, the one she wouldn't easily refuse.

But, hard as he tried, he couldn't make himself find consolation in such thoughts. Mirgael was far from perfect in many ways. However, he had to do her justice at least in that. She was not a tease.

He'd been taught to respect straightforwardness in men and maidens alike, but now, facing it in its worst, uncompromising form, he discovered it hard to appreciate it. He was, indeed, thankful for the honesty with which she treated him. And still, Eru the great, how he wished to deride it. How pure, and mindless, and needless it was.

But she was so close. So passionate, even if her passion was childish. It cost him an unthinkable effort to hold the distance he had limited himself to. He feared violating the boundaries of her personal space, justly assuming any sign of non-restraint would throw him back to where he had once begun – nowhere.

Not that he had moved too far from that. He gathered it clearly enough from the way she brushed his hand off hers, like a dirty branch, threatening to stain the pearly-white sleeve of her dress.

Yet Elrohir had to admit even that dismissive touch was welcome. The never-ending disappointment turned his concern for her into yearning that burned dark, feeding gratefully on each crumb of attention which came its way.

Just a fortnight ago he feared she would accept him only for his looks. Not to close her eyes in the arms of the one she didn't choose. To kiss him and think of Elladan. As if!

When she stood up to flee it was almost a blessing. He needed her to go so he could let himself unwind. Or he would be the one to leave, only to repent his faint-heartedness later.

While she ran, he had a heart to pursue her. But if the retreat were his...How shameful would his comeback be?

His dignity was already as sore as he could bear it. So, yes, he was ready to let her escape, he longed for it.

He had longed for it, until her foot touched the deep grass outside the now silent house. That was when jealousy overturned in Elrohir, obliterating every good intention he had cherished.

She would leave and daydream of his brother.

And he himself wouldn't be there to put an end to it.

There was nothing in him she'd value highly enough to ever let him take Elladan's place in her thoughts. His appearance - the one single asset to put him in one row with his twin – she had already proven to be of no importance for her, incredible as it might seem.

Or else she was too young to appreciate the benefits it held.

But he would try to show her. Since worse had come to the worst, he had nothing else to rely on.

"Mirgael!" hailed he in cracking voice, "Don't go."

She halted, surprised, perhaps, by the forced harshness of his call.

Would he really do it, Elrohir asked himself. A pointless act of pretense - he'd known the answer before the question was worded, even before he walked into this house today.

"I'm offering you a deal. Loathsome as I am," his lips were stark and refused to obey him, "I shall play my brother for you. Whenever you want it. The way that you want it. I shall be him for you."

Slowly she turned to him, eyes large and so incredulous Elrohir could swear he'd fall for this innocence only, hadn't he already been smitten beyond all sense and decency.

"Have you gone insane?" her voice was lower than a breath, "Elrohir."

He shook his head jerkily.

"There's no Elrohir. If you want Elladan, Elladan then I am."

She stepped up to him in a worry only to shrink back again when the meaning of his offer came home with her. Her cheeks blushed red with a blend of indignation and embarrassment.

"I will not marry you just for-"

The phrase trailed off, as he raised a warning hand quickly.

"I don't speak of marriage. You will not be bound in any way. My brother and Lenneth join their lips, but not their lives."

Elrohir realized his mistake as soon as the words were said. The mention of his twin nearly lost Mirgael for him. In haste to make amends for the slip, he spoke on, not to let her fall into thinking again.

"Mirgael...I'll do only what you will allow me to."

As though suddenly weakened, Mirgael sank back on the bench. Feeling quite unable to keep himself leashed anymore, he reached out to run his fingertips along her thin cheek, nauseous with excitement when she didn't pull away.

"You asked about my pride. Have it. It's yours."

Mirgael was studying his face intensely, and the first signs of resolve were beginning to show through the amazement that still possessed her. He could almost read her thoughts. She had her honour to nurse. She had to be perfect for Elladan. The bargain she was offered by a less deserving brother called for disdain at best.

He felt the agitation that enlivened him evaporate. The blow brought him down to verge of indifference. He stooped with a crooked smile of self-mockery, preparing for the vehement rebuke.

But it never came.

"It's madness," said she under her breath, "What will they think of us?"

Elrohir wanted to laugh bitterly. How many times would he err in her again? Yet all that left his lips was:

"Who will know?"

She frowned. Looked away and back at him again. Brought her palms to her face and didn't touch it, dropping her hands down helplessly.

"Take me," urged he gently, half-wishing she said nothing at all. Hoping against hope was sweet, and he didn't want to hasten the moment when it ended.

A strange glint came to her eyes. Like entranced Elrohir watched her sigh deeply, as her eyelids met for an unbearably long instance. When they opened again, the sparkle was still there. His heart stopped short and soared in his chest, when she spoke finally, no more than one word though she had said.

"Elladan?"

The relief that flooded through him was close to agony, but he had asked for it. He was ready to ask for more just for the way her tone changed, the enmity in it replaced by mind-melting softness.

"Yes," rasped out he.

She swallowed hard, still too much of a chaste maiden to go on, yet unwilling to give up her ground already.

"Do you want to kiss me?"

"Yes," exhaled he, drawing forward swiftly to crush his aching mouth against hers, "Oh, yes."


End file.
